


Discretion

by hilaryfaye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:03:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilaryfaye/pseuds/hilaryfaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Lestrade’s fault, really. He was the one who decided that—one way or another—he was going to make Sherlock and Anderson get along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discretion

It was Lestrade’s fault, really. He was the one who decided that—one way or another—he was going to make Sherlock and Anderson get along. It would have been bearable, except that Lestrade’s idea of forced cooperation was locking the two of them together in a storage room. 

“God damn it, Lestrade!” Anderson barked at the door.

“Shut up, I’m trying to think,” Sherlock snapped.

“Oh, in your infinite array of wit and wisdom, you never saw fit to learn how to pick locks?”

“Lestrade’s gummed this one up with something, the entire lock will have to be replaced when he lets us out of here.” Frustrated, Sherlock threw the paper clip he had been using across the room. 

“I’ll kill him,” Anderson said, “Not even you will find what’s left of him.”

“That’s highly ambitious of you, Anderson.” Sherlock paced, hands steepled under his chin. He would find a way out of there, somehow. A windowless storage room would not contain him. He would not let it. “Lestrade means to make us cooperate.”

“Oh, so you’ll help me kill him, then?”

“Hardly.” Sherlock began examining other parts of the door. He was getting impatient, he couldn’t be stuck in a room with no stimuli other than Anderson. He’d go mad. Lestrade deserved a broken nose for this. 

Anderson was still swearing, bringing Sherlock to the conclusion that he was completely and utterly useless when he was angry. “Anderson, just shut up,” Sherlock snapped. “You’re a hindrance.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Anderson said, “The last thing I need right now is you insulting me.”

“If you would shut up,” Sherlock snarled, grabbing Anderson by the front of his shirt. He was losing his temper, and refused to be responsible for anything that happened while they were locked in that room together. It would be Lestrade’s fault. “Maybe I would stop.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Anderson retorted, not backing down. If this was Lestrade’s way of making them cooperate, it was terrible. There was no one to get between them now, no reason for either of them to hold back. They might both come out of this room with a few broken bones. “You always were full of yourself you arrogant prick. I’ll never know how Watson puts up with you.”

Sherlock slammed Anderson back against a row of file cabinets. Anderson winced and grit his teeth. “You’re insufferable,” he hissed at Anderson. “It’s no wonder your wife left you, she probably couldn’t bear to listen to you day in and day out.”

Anderson shoved Sherlock back into the wall. “Don’t you ever say a word about my wife, you son of a bitch.” 

“Oh, hit a little too close to home, did I? When did she find out about Sally? Three months before she left you? Two?”

“I’ll kill you, and I’ll make it look like an accident.”

“The security camera watching us will have a different story.”

When Anderson turned his head to look Sherlock twisted, throwing Anderson around and pinning him against the wall. “You should know better, Anderson.” He had pinned Anderson’s wrists back to the wall, leaving Anderson exposed and vulnerable. Sherlock focused, aware that he had something to analyse now. 

They were both breathing a little harder than necessary and—Sherlock stared—Anderson’s pupils had dilated. 

Attraction. 

He stepped back, startled. Anderson stayed against the wall, and Sherlock could tell by his expression that he knew something he’d done involuntarily had betrayed him.

Anderson wasn’t a complete idiot. 

But he was, without question, attracted to Sherlock, and the consulting detective had no idea what to do with that information.

“Have you figured out how to get us out of here or are you just going to stand there?” Anderson snapped. 

Sherlock exhaled through his nose and looked at the camera. “Lestrade’s probably watching our every move,” he muttered. “He won’t let us out until we look like we’re getting along or he gives up.”

“Great, we’ll be in here until we die.” Anderson sagged against the wall, shaking his head. “I have a backlog in the lab all the way to St. Petersburg and Lestrade decides this is a great time for his social experiments.” He glowered up at the camera. 

Sherlock paused, thinking. Anderson busied himself inspecting the hinges of the door, probably looking for a way to remove the bolt. He had an idea that could not only get them out of their quickly, but allow him to gauge just how far Anderson’s attraction went.

“Anderson,” he said, “I have an idea.”

“Do you now? What a novelty.”

“It should get us out of here.”

“Do tell.” Anderson was still inspecting the door. 

Sherlock moved over to stand next to Anderson, a little closer than necessary. Anderson looked up warily, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What are you up to?”

Sherlock raised his hands to either side of Anderson’s face, and before Anderson could react, Sherlock’s mouth was on his. Anderson let out a muffled cry of shock, and went rigid. It was like kissing a wall. 

When Sherlock drew back Anderson stared at him in astonishment. “What in God’s name was that?”

“Our ticket out.” Sherlock kissed him again for good measure. Anderson was too stunned to do anything. 

The door slammed open. “I did not expect that!”

Sherlock looked contemptuously at Lestrade. “You should know better than to think something like that would work. I don’t appreciate being a part of your experiment, Lestrade.” He brushed past the confounded DI and glanced back at Anderson. “Not a word, or you’ll both regret it.”

Anderson hadn’t moved from the spot. He looked like he might be in shock. 

Sherlock smirked to himself and strolled down the hallway.

Kissing Anderson seemed to have stolen his ability to respond to any of Sherlock’s jibes. Over their next three encounters at crime scenes, Anderson only ignored Sherlock, going about his job, and sneaking glances when he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking. Sherlock hadn’t expected that the kiss would go without its repercussions, but he was beginning to distrust Anderson’s silence. 

Probably out of shock more than anything else, it seemed that neither Lestrade nor Anderson had breathed a word of the incident to anyone else. People were beginning to wonder why Sherlock and Anderson were so quiet around one another.

“I’m almost starting to wonder if you’ve let go of a grudge,” John told him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

“I knew it was too good to be true.” John sighed. “You know, it’s not so bad when the two of you aren’t at each other’s throats. What changed?”

_I kissed him because I knew I could get away with it._  Sherlock didn’t answer John, but he glanced at Anderson. He had an assistant. She was new, young, and infatuated with Anderson. He didn’t seem to notice—oblivious, as always. Sally had noticed, though. It was obvious from the way she inserted herself between the two of them when she had something to say to Anderson. Her body language was assertive. The assistant didn’t stand a chance. 

Sherlock estimated that Sally and Anderson’s affair had been over for several weeks, and had probably ended not long before Anderson’s wife figured it out and left him. It seemed as though Sally had assumed they would resume their relationship when Anderson’s marriage ended.

Anderson, obviously, didn’t concur. 

Sherlock still remembered the way Anderson’s pupils had dilated, his breath in ragged panting. Unbidden, an image of Anderson with his wrists pinned against the wall—open, exposed—flashed through Sherlock’s head. He closed his eyes a moment, pushing the thought away. He couldn’t get distracted at a crime scene, least of all by Anderson. It was ridiculous. Unlike the assistant, Sherlock wasn’t easily infatuated. 

His eyes kept sliding back to Anderson, waiting silently for Sherlock to finish up and let him resume his job. 

He straightend abruptly. John stood, assuming they were finished with the crime scene. “Anderson, I’d like a word,” Sherlock said. “If you don’t mind.”

Anderson seemed surprised. “Of course.” They stepped outside, neither making eye-contact. It was a bit cool, the start of November. 

For a moment, neither of them said a word. 

“This is about that bloody incident in the storage room, isn’t it?” Anderson asked, breaking the silence.

“I felt it needed to be addressed.”

“I could sue you, you know. Sexual harrassment.”

“If you were going to do that you would have done it already. But you hate courtrooms, don’t you, Anderson?” Sherlock knew what he was saying—he’d first become acquainted with Anderson’s sister, Penny, in rehab. There was a small matter of some crimes she’d committed while using, and Anderson had testified against her. Theft, mostly. 

Anderson’s jaw tightened. “Well if you want to bloody well talk about it, get it over with. I’d just as soon move on.”

“Your eyes dilated.”

“What?”

“In the storage room that day. Whenever I got close to you your pupils dilated. A clear indicator of attraction.”

Anderson swore under his breath. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he said.

“You know better than to try and fool me, Anderson.”

Neither of them looked at each other. Anderson folded his arms over his chest. Shielding himself. He felt vulnerable. “So what are you going to do with this little bit of information, then?”

“You’re distracting me at crime scenes.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you expect me to face the other way all the fucking time,” Anderson said, scowling. “You’re a damn child.”

“Anderson, if you’d shut up, you’d realize that I wasn’t finished.” Sherlock glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “I’d like to see if—that is, I’d like to try an experiment.”

Anderson’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“My hypothesis is that an intimate encounter might cure us both of these distractions.”

Anderson snorted, shaking his head. “You want to shag and move on,” he said. “Christ, how does anyone ever tolerate you?”

“If you don’t want to, fine then, but there’s no denying that you’re attracted to me.”

“Were you always this much of a charmer?” Anderson looked disgusted. “God help me, I don’t even know what about you I find attractive.” He looked back at the house. “Can I go back to my crime scene now? I have work to do.”

Sherlock looked down the street. Anderson watched him a moment and left. John came out looking for Sherlock a few minutes later. “What was all that about?” he asked. 

“Nothing important. We have to see Molly.” Sherlock turned his mind to the case, determined to ignore Anderson. 

That wasn’t so easy when the case was done with. Lestrade insisted Sherlock and John come to something of a dinner party, with everyone drinking and pretending like they didn’t all want to be somewhere else. 

Anderson was eyeing a piano near the back of the room, and Sherlock listened as he asked Lestrade about it. Lestrade explained it was actually his wife’s, she’d inherited it when her great aunt died. “Do you mind?” Anderson asked.

“No, not at all.” 

Sherlock watched Anderson sit down in front of the piano, his hands hovering over the keys. Anderson hesitated a moment, saying—“It’s been a while since I played.” Then he turned back to the piano, and started to play.

The room slowly went quiet. Anderson started with Fur Elise, and Sherlock watched the tension ease out of his shoulders as he played. When Anderson showed no signs of stopping, conversation slowly picked up again, but Sherlock only stood there, wine in hand, listening to Anderson play through Beethoven, Chopin, and Mozart.

He was good, there was no denying that, and completely absorbed in the music. He didn’t look up from the keys until Sherlock moved into his peripheral vision. “What do you want?”

“You’re very good.” Sherlock sipped at his tea. “Where did you learn?”

“My mother taught me.” Anderson was working his way through a Nocturne. “You’re not usually one for small talk, Sherlock, what do you want?”

“I’d like to… apologize for my rather graceless comments the last time we spoke.”

“My God, an apology just came out of your mouth. I’ll have to go home and put that one in my diary. November twelfth, Sherlock Holmes apologized to me. Had to pinch myself to make sure it wasn’t a dream.”

“Don’t be irritating or I’ll rescind my apology.”

Anderson snorted. “Yeah, alright, I’ll keep that in mind. I think Watson’s hitting on my assistant.”

“She’s more interested in you.”

“Now you’re just making things up.”

“Not at all. She’s shown six indicators of infatuation with you since I met her.” Sherlock sat in the chair next to the piano. “But you, apparently, have no interest in her whatsoever.”

“She’s over ten years younger than me, and a bit too…”

“Reminiscent of your sister?”

“I’d rather not talk about my sister with you.” Anderson finished the Nocturne, and closed the piano. “It’s late. I need to get home.”

“Why? It’s not as if anyone’s waiting for you to get home.”

Anderson gave Sherlock an icy look. “Charming as ever.”

“Anderson,” Sherlock said in a low voice.

“If it’s of any interest to you at all, I do have a first name.” Anderson folded his arms over his chest again. “What?”

“I’ve been giving this quite a bit of thought, and—” Sherlock made sure no one was nearby to hear him. “I’d like to repeat our incident in the storage room.”

“Which part? You physically assaulting me by slamming me into file cabinets, or you completely violating personal boundaries by kissing me?”

Sherlock frowned. “You’re being unneccesarily difficult.”

“And you’re being unnecessarily presumptuous.” Anderson stood. “Watson seems to have luck getting into relationships. Perhaps you should ask him for advice.”

“John can hardly keep a girlfriend for more than a few months,” Sherlock replied. “Anderson—”

“I’m giving you thirty seconds to convince me I shouldn’t punch you in the face right now.”

“I think I may have feelings for you.” Sherlock felt his face color in embarrassment. “And I’m not comfortable with that.”

Anderson was quiet for a long moment. No one else paid them much mind. Anderson drew in a long breath, and looked down at his hands. Sherlock didn’t want to say anymore, for fear of revealing too much. 

“You’re not just saying that with ulterior motive?” Anderson finally asked.

“If I had ulterior motive, that’s not the way I would have handled it.”

Anderson seemed satisfied with that answer. “Then you won’t mind too much that I’m not going to take you home with me tonight, or go anywhere with you.” He glanced around at the others. No one noticed them. “I’d like to sleep alone tonight.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. 

“Good night, Sherlock.” Anderson turned towards the door to collect his coat.

“Good night, Anderson.”

They didn’t see each other again for over a month. John didn’t notice anything unusual about Sherlock except that his silences had a different quality. He remarked that Sherlock seemed absorbed on some topic even when they didn’t have a case. “It’s unsual, you know?”

Sherlock did know. He was looking for cases not to cure his boredom, but to distract him from the thoughts that plagued him when he wasn’t working.  He didn’t want to think about Anderson, or about how many of his thoughts Anderson was now preoccupying. 

It was madness, they had hated each other from the start. They were too alike—too stubborn, too proud, too petty, too unforgiving—and at the same time too different. Anderson was too emotional, too trusting. 

Any fool could see the man was still torn up over his divorce.

Yet all Sherlock could think of was the jibes. He remembered the hurt that he occasionally glimpsed in Anderson’s eyes, and felt regret. And he hated it. 

These feelings—everything Sherlock tried to deny—they were a torment. 

It was Dimmock who next called on Sherlock. Dimmock didn’t like him, but he was willing to acknowledge that Sherlock was useful, and to get out of the way. That was all that mattered. “Who’s on forensics?” Sherlock asked, almost dreading the answer.

“Anderson.”

There was a silence. “…Is that a problem?” Dimmock asked.

“No,” Sherlock said, “We’ll be over. Have you told Anderson we’re coming?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t.”

“Sherlock, do you mind telling me exactly what’s going on between you and Anderson?”

“Nothing that should concern you.” Sherlock didn’t want to be having this conversation in a taxi. He didn’t want to be having this conversation at all.

“Well something’s going on. Even Lestrade can tell.”

Sherlock snorted. “I’m sure he can.”

John made a sound of irritation. Sherlock rubbed his hands together. It was almost the New Year. Anything could happen.

Anderson was already collecting evidence when Sherlock arrived. He looked startled, and then furious that he hadn’t been told. Sherlock hung back. “I’ll have a look when you’re done.”

Everyone stared at Sherlock like he’d gone off the deep end. Anderson looked at him carefully, nodded, and went back to work. 

Normally, Anderson left as soon as he had everything he needed. That day he lingered, even though it was cold and he was a bit under dressed for the weather. His breath rolled away in clouds, and Sherlock was reasonably certain that his crossed arms were to preserve body heat. 

“You’re really trying, aren’t you?” Anderson said when Sherlock was done with the crime scene.

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“I have to say I’m impressed,” Anderson went on. “I certainly never expected anything like this. Least of all from you.”

Sherlock peeled off his gloves. “John is watching us. He thinks something’s going on.”

“Is there something going on?” Anderson shivered in the cold. “Or have you had a change of heart?”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, and steeled himself. “May I kiss you?” he asked softly.

Anderson’s laugh was quiet. He reached a hand up into Sherlock’s curls, pulling him down. He tasted of coffee. There were a few audible gasps—Sherlock was too busy enjoying his first real kiss in ages to care. 

Anderson sucked on his bottom lip and then gave Sherlock a gentle shove. “I’m on the clock. You’ll have to find me after hours if you want anything else.”

Sherlock allowed hismelf a small smile. “Of course, Daniel.”

Anderson rolled his eyes, but he looked amused. “I’m sure you know where to find me.”

“What was that?” John asked.

“What you wanted to know about.” 

Anderson was doing the dishes when he heard the knock on the door. He didn’t get many visitors, but somehow he thought he knew who this one was—considering he hadn’t had the decency to phone ahead. 

Sherlock stood in the hallway, hands in the pockets of his coat. They looked at each other for a long moment. 

“May I come inside?”

Anderson stepped to the side, letting Sherlock in to the small flat. He hadn’t finished unpacking yet—he’d decided he would move into some place smaller after the divorce. Now he didn’t know where to put all his things. There was a corner in the kitchen stacked nearly to the ceiling with boxes. Sherlock looked around without comment. 

“You had the entire Yard in an uproar,” Anderson told him.

“I did?”

Anderson smiled. “We had the entire Yard in an uproar. I had to send half my suboordinates for coffee just to get any work done.” He paused, and leaned against the counter. “I really have no idea what we’re doing.”

“Nor do I.” Sherlock felt a little relieved that he wasn’t the only one who felt out of his element. “I… usually, I do my best to ignore these things.”

Anderson looked almost pitying, which Sherlock found discomfiting. He didn’t want to be pitied. 

“You’ve… had sex before, haven’t you?”

“Not in the most enjoyable fashion, but yes.” Sherlock rubbed the back of his left hand nervously. “I’ve found that penetrative sex is not really my preference.”

Anderson nodded as if this were a completely normal conversation. “What are you comfortable with?”

Specifying did a lot of good towards relaxing Sherlock, who already hated to admit that he’d been anything but confident about the course of events he hoped this night would take. 

Anderson put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and they stood a moment without talking. “Here’s what I want to know,” Anderson said. “After all this time, why?”

Sherlock took a long time to answer. “I have, over the years, become very good about lying to myself, particularly where it concerns other people, and my feelings about them.”

Anderson waited, but Sherlock couldn’t find the words to say more. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock softly. Sherlock tasted of tobacco. “You’ve been smoking again,” Anderson murmured. “Watson will have your hide.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt me.” Sherlock brushed his fingers through Anderson’s hair. “I don’t care to have everyone knowing the things I say to you tonight, Anderson. I want to keep this… private.”

It would have been easy for Anderson to assume that Sherlock meant he was ashamed, but Anderson knew better. He spent too much time acting as though he were emotionless, as though he were superior to feelings, to give up that sham now. Pride. He was well familiar with pride. 

Another hesitant kiss. Anderson moved his hand to the side of Sherlock’s face, rubbing Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb. Sherlock pressed the flat of his palms against Anderson’s back, pulling him a little closer. 

Sherlock wanted to enjoy every sensation, analysing his reactions to every touch and sound and taste. He scoffed at physical pleasures regularly, but having Anderson pressed up against his body, kissing him, running his hand down Sherlock’s back, was sending sparks along his nervous system. 

Anderson took hold of Sherlock’s coat, and pulled him along to the living room. He fell on his back on the sofa, pulling Sherlock on top of him. Sherlock put his hands on either side of Anderson’s head, nipping at Anderson’s bottom lip. Their legs tangled and Sherlock kicked off his shoes, unwilling to admit how much he enjoyed that Anderson’s hand crept around to the small of his back. He didn’t allow himself to be physically close to people. This, though—this was nice. 

He traced Anderson’s jaw and neck with his mouth, adoring the gasp the involuntarily escaped Anderson. Yes, this was what he wanted—Anderson there and open and tender. Was this, Sherlock wondered as Anderson eased his coat off of him, what Sally had loved? What the ex-wife had loved? 

The coat cast over the back of the sofa, Sherlock stretched out on top of Anderson, claiming his mouth in another kiss. Anderson tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, his other hand running light caresses over Sherlock. There was a method to them, Sherlock was quick to determine—Anderson was looking for the places and pressures that got the best response. 

Sherlock brought his knees to either side of Anderson’s waist, sitting up to remove his shirt. Anderson watched as button after button parted, sitting to follow the unveiling with his lips. Sherlock sucked in a breath, dropping the shirt on the floor. Anderson dragged his tongue from the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers up to his collar bone, making Sherlock shiver. 

He removed Anderson’s shirt for him, running his long fingers over Anderson’s skin. He could feel endorphins and oxytocin flooding his system, it’s own kind of intoxication, and one he wanted to come back to again and again. 

They managed to fall off of the sofa. Anderson winced from the fall and then burst out laughing, shaking his head. It took him a moment to realize that Sherlock was staring at him, and he looked suddenly uncomfortable. “What?”

“I’ve never seen you smile before.”

Anderson couldn’t help that he started to laugh again. “Oh, fucking hell,” he whispered. He pulled Sherlock over for a kiss again. His hands were excellent. Soft. 

Sherlock pulled Anderson onto his lap, running a hand down Anderson’s thigh. His self-analysis had fallen to bits, he was caught up in the physical experience. 

“Do you want to, uh, move to the bed?” Anderson asked. 

Sherlock—in a move he would never be able to repeat or explain how he had accomplished it—managed to stand and simultaneously throw a very startled Anderson over his shoulder. 

“Jesus!” Anderson cried, “What the hell?”

Sherlock grinned. He was able to find the bedroom easily enough, kicking open the door. They tumbled on to the bed, Sherlock rolling onto his back. Anderson held himself up on his forearms, rocking his hips only half voluntarily. 

He curled his fingers over the top of Sherlock’s waistband and paused, looking to Sherlock for approval. 

Sherlock nodded, and Anderson began removing his trousers. He ran one hand down Sherlock’s leg, tracing every curve. God help him, he’d always known that Sherlock Holmes was a beautiful man, even if he was a pretentious prick. He looked more like a Michelangelo come to life than any normal person. Now you’re waxing poetic, he thought. His wife had used to tease him about it, though she was just as guilty of the same thing. “Hyperbole is the third person in our marriage.” That’s what she’d liked to say. 

He tossed Sherlock’s trousers behind him, moving forward again to kiss Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock seemed more relaxed than Anderson had ever seen him—not tense with the frenetic energy that defined his casework. He was languid, and it occurred to Anderson with a bit of a shock that Sherlock was trusting him. Trusting him not to try something Sherlock didn’t want, trusting him to be discreet. 

He stroked Sherlock’s hair a moment, smiling, and reached down between them. It had been a long time since he’d slept with a man, but he didn’t fancy he’d forgotten much, from the way Sherlock’s mouth flew open in an ‘O’ and his eyes half-closed. The noises that came out of that mouth as Anderson stroked his cock were obscene, and brought Anderson no small amount of flat-out glee. He kissed Sherlock in between moans, hovering over him. Sherlock pressed one leg against Anderson’s side, the muscles in his legs tensing and relaxing at odd intervals. 

Sherlock looked up when Anderson paused, rummaging in the bedside table for something. He tensed visibly when Anderson pulled out a condom. “It’s alright,” Anderson murmured, tearing the packet open. “It’s for you, not me.” He slid the condom over Sherlock’s cock and slid down the bed. 

He circled the head of Sherlock’s cock with his tongue. A strangled gasp escaped Sherlock, who started grabbing handfuls of the bedsheets while Anderson sucked and licked his cock. His feet—still in socks—pressed against Anderson’s back, encouraging him. 

Anderson was surprised when Sherlock pulled him off. He seemed to have been enjoying himself too much for coherent thought. Sherlock pulled Anderson up next to him and rolled, putting himself between Anderson’s legs. Anderson was puzzled, until Sherlock started rocking his hips forward, grinding against him. Sherlock’s pupils were dark and wide, and he seemed to be getting as close to Anderson as absolutely possible. 

Sherlock thrust against Anderson’s cock through the trousers he still wore, making the man underneath him clutch at his arse and swear under his breath, eyes closing of their own volition. Sherlock wanted Anderson to come in his pants, to make him see what he did to Sherlock, to make as much a mess of him as Sherlock felt. 

Anderson was moving his hips in a way that begged to be fucked. Sherlock sucked at Anderson’s neck, snapping his hips against Anderson’s, refusing to break contact with the legs now wrapped around him. 

“A—hah—” Anderson could hardly speak. He jerked suddenly, involuntarily, and Sherlock knew he’d come. He gave three more thrusts and shuddered, color exploding behind his eyelids. 

Sherlock slowly settled himself on top of Anderson, laying his head on Anderson’s shoulder. He could feel Anderson’s pulse still racing, hear the breath going in and out of his lungs. 

Anderson was catching his breath. He wrapped a loose arm around Sherlock, turning his head so the tip of his nose brushed Sherlock’s forehead. They lay like that without saying a word for a long moment. 

Anderson could hear a phone that most certainly wasn’t his ringing in the living room. “You didn’t tell Watson you were going out, did you?”

“He was away with a new girlfriend.” Sherlock made no effort to move. He was analyzing again. There would still be oxytocin going through his system, forming and adding to emotional attachment. 

“I need to shower,” Anderson said. “Let Watson know you haven’t been kidnapped, at least.”

Sherlock nodded, reluctantly pulling away.

“Next time you might have to actually let me take my trousers off,” Anderson added drily, shucking his trousers and pants off and depositing them in the laundry hamper. He didn’t catch the smile that Sherlock shot at his back. 

Next time. 


End file.
